


Another Aspiring Mad Scientist Fucks Up I Guess

by DaylilyAntares



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Gore, Homoeroticism, theyre gay but like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-21
Updated: 2019-10-21
Packaged: 2020-12-27 10:36:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21117374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaylilyAntares/pseuds/DaylilyAntares
Summary: just a too-short mad scientist story about Walter Emrys, who gets too deep into shit he shouldn't have and his roommate he's kinda gay with putting up with all of it (Trevor Carwell)





	Another Aspiring Mad Scientist Fucks Up I Guess

It wasn't a very dark or stormy night, in early September of 1887. It didn't need to be, as nothing of any depraved scientific nature was coming to pass, on that evening. That would come later. For now, there was only the quiet glow of an oil lamp, and a young man bent over a sturdy desk, writing something in tight and spindly lettering.

This person of interest was a university student, majoring in Physical Science and with a minor in Chemistry. He was currently focused on a certain problem he'd been pondering for nearly weeks. He couldn't exactly ask for help from any of his professors, as it was likely that he'd be institutionalized for spouting things that would label him a madman. It was a simple idea. How could the human body be improved, improved to the point that he rises above the rest of man to become something else entirely? What needed to be tinkered with, twisted, engorged, removed. How could a flesh and blood creature with such a fallible joint as the shoulder, overcome it's flaws to become, dare he say, worthy, of greater power? He'd been compiling a list of things.

The shoulder, as mentioned before, must be changed- too easy to dislocate or pull out. the joints in general, were too weak- they could only move so far. The bones were strong enough-though there must be a way to even improve upon those. The tongue- He continued to think on it, continued his list, his hypothesizing, late into the night. The window was open enough to let the cool night air flow in. It was cooling down from the warm summer, fading to the gently breezy chill of autumn. The man at the desk hummed to himself, a small original tune probably drawing inspiration from Chopin, or another classical composer of his breed. He kept his volume low- to avoid waking his roommate, a much less interesting fellow, who was soundly asleep in his own bed.

The man cut of much duller cloth went by the name of Trevor Carwell, a straight laced, intelligent youth with hair darker than night and a complexion of heavy, copper-toned chestnut, almost gold when candlelight struck his cheekbones. His mother wasn't of European descent, though his father was, otherwise his name might not have been so usual for English countries- he faced his own share of discrimination as it was, but it certainly could've been worse, was his father not decently wealthy and whiter than parchment, as it were. He had no part in any of his roommate's toying with the shape and nature of man- but merely wished him well in his ventures. A mistake.

Trevor's roomate, was cut of rather unusual cloth, should he say so himself- and he did say so himself, quite often. If there was anything unusual about him, it was everything. Well, that was an exaggeration. His face was rather plain, his height average, weight heavier than the norm- but that could be explained by his physical build, as he hid muscle under vests and loose sleeves. It was one of the odd things about him, how he was often seen trying to work his muscle, to jog around the university's campus with vigor to tone his already well shaped legs. There were no competitions to prepare for, no sports- yet he still tried to exercise a few times a week. Trevor had caught him in his undershirt and trousers on the floor with a book open, doing slow push-ups over it as he read. There wasn't a second he wasn't busy. His instructors and professors enjoyed his presence in lectures- he always held a hand high before speaking, always asked questions with eager enthusiasm and queer specifics, always taking notes. They knew him by name- and his name, of course, would be Walter Emrys.

The morning after the man known as Walter Emrys sat up late into the night pondering his ideas, Carwell rolled out of bed a few hours after sunup, and about an hour until his first class of the day. It wasn't unusual to him that he see Emrys asleep at his desk- where he was- but it was unusual to see the papers poking out from under his arm to have, 'YES!' written on them with excited, horrible penmanship. 

Carwell and Emrys both had the same lecture that morning, so Emrys appreciated the gentle awakening from his roommate. He had gone to bed at three am, he'd reported to Carwell, smiling more contently than usual, raking his fingers through murky brown waves of hair, longer than it had any business to be on the top. Meaning he'd gotten six hours of sleep. Could've been worse, Carwell supposed. But Emrys often took short naps throughout the day- power naps, he called them- whenever he'd had a particularly disappointing night's sleep. There was a pep in his step, Carwell noticed later, as they left their dorm room, and while Emrys was usually a bit more animated than most, this was a new kind of pep. Spicier. He told him so, watching Emrys shift his bag around where he held it strapped over his shoulder.

"Oh? Well I suppose I must be- I do feel a little more lively. I made a minor breakthrough in my personal experimental investigations. I'm sure you've noticed by now that I've been dabbling in the occult?"

Carwell cleared his throat awkwardly, shifting his hold on his belongings. "I wasn't going to bring it up. You know I'd never think you crazy for it, right? You can trust me-"

"Oh, I know my dearest friend, you'd never do something to hurt me. But it does have something to do with the occult! I have it now though, i've got it!" Carwell watched him skip a few steps as he spoke, bouncing along the pavement in his scuffed shoes.

He could only speak plainly and politely. "I'm glad for you that you've made such a discovery- But I do worry for you, Walter. I don't want you getting into anything over your head."

They reached the lecture hall, and Emrys held the door open for Carwell, with a bow of his head and almost glowing smile. "Don't you waste space in your brilliant mind for worrying over me. I'm plenty clever and you know it- If anything happens to me, it won't be because I was hoodwinked." Both men entered the building, and moved on with their respective days.

The next time this came up, was a day or two later, when Carwell came back to their dorm in the afternoon around sunset, to find Emrys' desk crowded with various textbooks; what could very well be a copy of the necronomicon or another grimoire, and various tools most often used in chemistry and biology. Emrys was lounging in his chair with his stocking feet up, clothes haphazard in a roguish fashion and hair unbrushed and messy, reading from what appeared to be an anatomical reference book.

"Ah, Trevor, my good man, how's your day been?"  
Carwell entered somewhat hesitantly, stepping over the threshold with his leather bag clutched in his hands. "It's been just fine, thankfully- When did you get all these in here?"

Emrys grinned over at him, the green tints in his hazel eyes vivid under his thick eyelashes, before hopping up out of his chair, and sitting on the desk beside a few of his many books, his anatomy diagrams falling open on his lap. He watched Carwell cross the room to settle at his own desk, turning in his chair to face Emrys as he traced a line of nerves through a sketched arm.

"Just today. Don't worry about the clutter, I'll keep it under control and out of your way, alright?"

Carwell nodded cautiously, glancing around again. Something else was new to the room too, a bag under Emrys' desk with what looked like candles and a cloth bag visible through its opening. He tilted his chin up in it's direction. "What's under your desk?"

Emrys raised an eyebrow, kicking his feet out consideringly. "Candles, salt, a few other things. Occult stuff, of course- but don't worry, I'll keep it well contained and won't make a mess of the room."

That wasn't what Carwell was worried about, but he just nodded again- He was doing a lot of that lately. "Right... Good, good. Thank you Emrys."

Emrys didn't notice the look in his eyes, and gave him a pleased grin, before moving back to lounge improperly across his chair again. Carwell opened his own bag and pulled out his books and papers, to work on a project for one of his professors- even if his mind was barely thinking about it.

The next time was harder to brush off. Carwell had noticed the faint smudges of chalk and charcoal on the floor, over the previous week. He'd left it alone- it wasn't anywhere near his bed or belongings, it wasn't his business. But he was worried about his friend all the same. He'd seen him, kneeling on the floor beside his table, a tight grip on his shoulder with his opposing hand- the end of his humerus seeming to jut out at an odd angle pushing up the flesh. He'd jammed it back into socket with a too-loud pop that soured the air with a bitten down cry of pain. But he'd stood up, stretching the arm out, feeling over the places the bones came together, and went to write something down in his journal, which was filling up quicker than ever before. He'd seemed fine afterwards, other than the wincing- the ease with which he did so filled Carwell with a strange sense that he'd done it before- several times. But he'd left it alone then too. It wasn't his business, and he seemed to be in fine health.

He'd brushed away smudges of charcoal on Emrys' face with a thumb or kerchief, chastised him for letting his clothes get dirty, sighed at the darker circles stretching beneath his eyes. But it was getting too imminent. Because this time there was a cat. A mostly white cat, with blue eyes, sitting comfortably in Emrys' bed. A saucer with water on the floor at least showed it was being cared for- but when had Emry's gotten a cat? He asked him about it at supper, leaning in close beside him under the steady bustle of voices from other students.

"Why on earth is there a cat in our dormitory?"

Emrys hushed him quietly, glancing around and back to him with a shining smile. "I do hope he didn't startle you my dear fellow- He's very well behaved.. I'm not the most excited to admit I require him for the next stages of my experimental investigations."

Carwell couldn't do much more than blink in surprise. "What? What are you going to do to the poor wretch, will it be alright?"

The glint of eagerness in Emrys' eyes that had been growing gently greener each day faded a little. "I do hope so. If I do it right, it may be the strongest, smartest feline in the world."

Carwell shook his head, a mix of concern, distaste, and awe clouding his features as he looked down at his meal, toying with his fork. "I said I'd never think you mad, but-"

"And I'm ever so grateful for that." He interrupted him, with a determined look. Carwell didn't push it this time. He couldn’t already be too far gone, right?

Over the next few days, Emrys was often upstairs in the unoccupied attic- no doubt with his chalk circles and candles, cuts on his hands where blood had been spilled over them and chemical solutions. The cat wasn't in the dormitory anymore- likely upstairs in the attic. Carwell tried to focus on his schoolwork, but none of it was interesting enough to completely distract his thoughts from his dear friend and roommate upstairs.

It came to a head when he heard the caterwauling of a pained feline ring out through the floorboards, sending him jumping to his feet, watching the ceiling and listening with apprehension. Muffled cries of presumably Emrys reached his ears, but Carwell couldn't really urge himself to move. He stood there petrified, eyes darting back and forth across the ceiling- until something happened. The wailing of the wretched cat died down a bit, to low pained mewls and wet cries before stopping completely.

Something became visible on the ceiling- a single dark drop of something slipping through a crack. Carwell moved out of the way quickly before it beaded and fell. He took a closer look at it after a moment's hesitation, unwilling to step under the leak, and saw that it was thick, dark, and an off shade of red-black. Or green-black. It wasn't clear. But the smell hit him, and he gagged. It was almost as if he could smell burning flesh. The kind that sizzled in one's sinuses, burrowed into the brain. He backed away from it, covering his nose with an airy sleeve. He made a decision, and took quick steps out the door, and up the stairs, knocking on the door to the rest of the attic from the top of the stairs.

"Walter? Walter! Whatever you're doing in there is getting through the boards and nearly dripped on me, you hear? What's going on in there?"

There was a hasty curse and some scrambling before Emrys opened the door quickly, bent over slightly and watching Carwell through twists of dark hair hanging in his smudged face. Carwell tried not to recoil at the green rings glowing in his eyes, and the fading bruises on his neck. "Walter Emrys, won't you tell me what's going-"

"I can't, I can't Trevor my friend, I am so sorry- Dripping did you say? there's been a leak? Bugger. I'll take care of it, don't worry." He almost turned to close the door again but spoke vehemently before he did, giving Carwell a warning look. "And don't touch it."

He closed the door in Carwell's face with a subtle polite apology in the air. The smell of burning flesh had wafted out the door again- this time, burnt hair accompanied it, and Carwell hesitantly descended the stairs, hearing him move about and curse softly to himself intermittently. Something was wrong with him, it had to be.

Later, as Carwell tried and failed to get back to his work, he noticed Emrys hauling a wet bag down the stairs, hands and arms smeared with dark coagulated blood and flecks of fur, smudges reaching his face. Carwell tried even harder to get back to work this time. That night he dreamt about tortured cats and woke up sweating.

It started to get harder to ignore. Emrys was still vanishing for hours upstairs, but now he was coming back different. Different how? Carwell couldn't exactly say. It was a lot of little things. The previously rich hazel color of his eyes had shifted to a distinct green, making the separation between the iris and pupil noticeable enough to be unnerving. The whites of his eyes were no longer as bright, the veins starting to stand out a more sickly purple- his teeth followed suit, with a faint green tint to them. They seemed sharper too, eyeteeth jutting forward more but never pushing past his lips.

His shoulders seemed to have shifted in place- the bumps Carwell could feel on his own no longer looked the same on Emrys'. His hair was graying in places, very slightly. a fine dusting of silver at his temples. It wasn't right that it was happening so quickly, was it? It was getting harder to ignore. The fluid that had leaked from the ceiling left a stain, and Carwell avoided looking at it- whenever he did he could almost smell the same scorched, chemically burning smell that seared its memory into his sinuses. He didn't eat the same, Emrys. He was eating more meat- more everything. He was gaining mass- not weight, mass. He was taller- that he knew- and it wasn't lifts in his shoes. He was getting stronger too. Carwell still caught him exercising- his occasional morning jogs turning into more enthusiastic sprints.

Carwell didn't know what else to do- so he did what he could think of. He told one of Emrys' teachers. He confided in him about the man's physical changes, his obsession with whatever he was working on in the attic, his books and grimoires. He tried not to mention much of the occult, but it wasn't easy. In the end, the teacher looked thoroughly concerned. Professor Smithers was the most understanding teacher Carwell knew. He gave him a measured nod.

"I'll have a talk with the lad. I'd been noticing something too- asking less questions during my lectures."

Carwell managed a weak chuckle at that. "Still- I'm quite sure something is going on with him. Please- don't tell him it was me? Or that you think he's hiding something."

Smithers nodded again, almost conspiratorially. "Won't tell a soul, Mr. Carwell. Thank you for letting me know about this mess."

I'm sorry. I had to tell someone, he thought. Carwell hoped Emrys didn't find out it was him- or that it panicked people and closed the art exhibit. He had a feeling he knew though, from the way he glanced at him with nearly reflective eyes that night, as he moved from his bedroom to the attic again. whatever was happening to Emrys was getting too close.

Not only was it too close- but far sooner than he hoped, it was here. Things began to escalate, further and further, until it all came down hard. The candle wax crusted to his sheets. The nights Carwell woke up hearing Emrys in bed speaking in tongues and rattling under the bedclothes with the sickening pop of joints as he contorted upwards. Held down by gravity only. Nights spent restlessly awake, listening to the cries of pain in Emry's voice from the attic, ink, charcoal dust, and salt splattering or drifting down from cracks in the ceiling. Watching him race around the track at an inhuman pace, seeing his arm twist unnaturally without the accompanying, pained pop.

Eventually, the day came when Emrys didn't come back from the attic for a full day. Carwell was worried, and finally gathered the courage to go up the stairs, and open the unlocked attic door. It was a mess- papers strewn about,vials and syringes and sharp tools strewn about. The most frightening was the massive sigil drawn and carved into the floor- incredibly large, and very detailed, covered in candles that had long since smoldered out.

Carwell would've been able to tell what the symbol was- if not for the thick puddle of stinking dark fluid. He covered his nose and approached it hesitantly. It didn't move- it had spread as far as it was going to without being disturbed. It smelled of flesh, like what dripped onto the dorm room floor, with less of a lingering smell of hair. The fluid was clumpy, and Carwell began to feel nauseous, stumbling away from the sigil to lean heavily on a table. He realized he was doubled over Emrys open journal. After a brief read, he covered his mouth and exited the room with the book. Emrys must have succeeded- he must have overcome his humanity. Then what was the slick, ugly mess on the attic floor? Remains?

It didn't matter. It was time to relocate, and find Carwell's dear roommate, if he was still out there. He remembered the cat and shuddered. Before it was too late.

It was too late. The next two days were a mess of policemen and confusion, demanding questions and exhaustion. Carwell found himself in the attic again, flipping through his journal. Why, why would anyone want what he had wanted? To become less than human- more accurately, more than human- to possess the power of an ancient god, that could easily destroy him as it had a poor wretch of a cat? He would find out, once he found the right part of Emrys notes. But for now, he didn't know. The late evening was cold, the window was open as it had been when he first entered the attic two days prior. He worried over where Emrys could be- and got his answer. there was a heavy thud on the roof accompanied by a tumble, and Carwell startled quickly.

"Who's there?" A raspy, almost inhuman voice was heard like an uncomfortable, hot and sharp bath washing over him from outside. With clumsy clambering and scratching of nails on the roof shingles, a figure lowered itself to the windowsill, and pushed his way inside.

"Trevor, my dear friend.." Emrys voice was thoroughly mangled. His eyes were a luminescent green, a mottled, shifting mix of dark scales and feathers moved over his skin. His previously silk-soft hair was thick with feathers. He wore no clothes except tattered trousers, body entirely covered in the dark scales and feathers. A massive, threadbare pair of wings sprouted from his back, smelling of decomposing birds.

He was immensely strong- ruined by the fact that his skin was darker, swollen, bleeding but even more so, almost dripping off of his muscle and bones. Carwell scrambled away with a harsh gasp, clapping a hand over his face to mask the smell and his eyes. Yellowed bone protruded from Emrys' chest, flesh writhing like maggots over and under them, organs functioning with wriggling, failing efficiency. Coagulated blood, thick as tar and heavy with flesh dripped down over his arms, chest, and oozed from his thighs beneath stained pants.

"Walter- Walter what on- What in God's name has happened to you-"

"...no time." The disfigured, winged man almost slithered into the circle, skin and muscle sloughing off as he moved, feathers falling ill and dead and in such disarray. Carwell gathered his courage to approach, and before he spoke, Emrys pleaded with him in the croaked, raspy voice of a man who's had his lungs set ablaze. "I need you to get me- please, fetch the vial labeled- labeled 'back'? I need it, on the table-"

Carwell's hands were shaking when he rushed to it, scrambling for the right thing. He found the stoppered test tube and brought it to him quickly, uncorking it as he went. The decomposing Emrys threw back the contents, and after a full body shudder of rippling flesh and rivulets of blood, nothing happened, but he collapsed onto his back over the chalked sigil with a coughing gurgle that sprayed sludge over the floor.

"Trevor-"

"Walter, you- you need to hang on, I can fetch a doctor, you'll be-"

"..No, no I won't, I'm done for my- my dear friend." Carwell could see he was right, of course. thick globules of melting, singed flesh sliding over muscle and bone like melting butter. It smelled worse than anything, sulfur and burnt flesh. The feathers clinging to the wings were sloughing off, dripping to the floor off the muscle riddled with tears and gashes. Emrys rasped, a wet rattle in his throat, hardly audible or comprehensible as a stretching, wet hole tore across his cheek dripping coagulated half-fresh gore.

"Trevor, my good- my good fellow, please. Dispose of me, please-" The request was followed up by a horrid clicking and wet gurgling, too-long tongue thrashing and visible through the gash leading into his mouth, still regurgitating heavy blood that smelled as stale and old as the attic, with a humid swampy quality enough to peel paint.

"I- I must- No, no please-" Carwell covered his mouth with his hands as the bloodshot, watering and hazy green eyes began to cloud with darkness. "I c- I can't, Lord please Trevor-"  
The plain, horrified man looked around quickly, rushing to seize a small axe resting against the wall by one of the tables in the smaller space- blade already bloody. He hurried back, and gagged when one of the dark, almost skeletal, hot and dripping hands of his friend grasped for him.

He let him take his hand, gasping with the powerful tremors going through him, and stared in terror as more of the man's flesh gouged itself free. A rapidly beating heart slammed against the beaten rib cage, partially visible in its decomposing glory.

"Trevor, please- I am so sorry, I cared for you so- please my friend, one last favor-" His words were barely understandable, tongue beginning to melt at the tip in a flowing, clumped river of swampy blood. Carwell nodded, shaking toe to tip, and steeled his nerves.

He stood fully, and raised the axe over his shoulder, preparing his stance with a trembling noise, a gag and a sob all in one. A twisted, disgusting smiled bared Emrys' teeth and decomposing tongue. His eyes were bleeding now, soupy dark blood forcing itself from the sockets even as he fixed Carwell with a grateful look.

"Thank you."

Carwell swung the axe and brought it down on Emrys' throat with a sickening noise akin to gutting a pig. A pained scream forced itself from Emrys' throat turning to a rattling gurgle and gagging. His head was severed from the rest of his tortured form with ease, a vomit inducing texture of flesh, acid and coagulated blood gushed from the stump.

The head looked at Carwell one last time, a fond glimmer in his eyes that was fading. The familiar look was interrupted by the sickening collapse of the eyes, oozing from their sockets leaving dangling optic nerves. Carwell tore the axe from the ground and dropped it aside with a clatter, watching the body sizzle from its gel filled dripping sockets to the slowing, sloshing wriggling of the intestines through to gaping chasm in his stomach.

With a cry, Carwell jumped back, a voice roaring from the still form in a language man couldn't know, and the body combusted, flames consuming it greedily, and the smell made Carwell double over and retch heartily. What sounded like Emrys' voice rang out through the cacophony of hellish noise.

"Run!" Carwell didn't hesitate this time, sprinting from the attic and flying down the stairs with bile in his throat, tears in his eyes, and the slimy remains of his roommate dripping from his hands. Too late, he thought numbly. Too late.


End file.
